


Our Son Loves Baseball

by Baroness_Blixen



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Mulder is William's father, Post-Episode: s11e05 Ghouli, and he has feelings too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 19:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13596807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baroness_Blixen/pseuds/Baroness_Blixen
Summary: Post-ep: Mulder and Scully muse about their son.





	Our Son Loves Baseball

The happiness on Scully’s face is the greatest gift Mulder has received in years, maybe ever. Her bright smile rivals the late afternoon sun; rivals the feeling of relief in his heart. She hums along softly to some country song on the radio, though Mulder doubts she even notices. One of her hands is on his thigh, still but present. He wants to say so many things. There are so many questions running through his mind. Every once in a while he dares to glance over at her before he quickly looks away again. He won’t say any of it, won’t ask a single thing.

Their son.

For the longest time, William (at least in his mind he will never think of the boy as anyone else but William; the small baby boy he held in his arms over a decade ago) was nothing more than a faded picture, an outdated idea in his mind. Sometimes he thought about him; a faceless boy, generic. He would try to come up with a face, make it up in his mind, pretend. But it never worked, not really. Eventually he gave up. The thought makes him turn his head, look at Scully. He catches her reflection in the mirror. Her smile catches him, reminds him. William, their son, has the same smile. He knows that now. It’s not enough. He knows his son’s face, can see Scully in there, and maybe, if he squints, himself. But it’s not enough. Mulder wants to know everything. Every little detail there is to know about their son.

“He is alive, Mulder.” Scully says as if reading his mind, as if trying to reassure him. As if that fact alone is all that matters. And maybe she is right. He turns up the radio and Scully squeezes his thigh. The music relaxes him, lets him forget for a moment. His son. Does he like country music? Or does he maybe – a father can dream, after all – like Elvis? Mulder chuckles to himself. He feels Scully’s eyes on him. There’s no worry in them now, no concern. Just a glance. Just to share this nameless emotion with him.

“We’d like two-” Mulder begins when the reach the hotel, finally.

“One room, please.” Scully interrupts him and Mulder fully believes in alternate realities this very moment. They share a smile that says no regrets. He never had any anyway. Mulder follows her to their room, stands too close behind her as she unlocks the door, but she doesn’t mind. The door is barely closed when she’s in his arms. She’s just holding him. Her arms are tight around him, but not out of despair, of sadness. She’s happy. Her body vibrates against him and he needs a moment to understand she’s not crying; she’s laughing.

“He’s alive, Mulder,” Scully repeats, her voice full of awe, “our son is alive.” She gets on tiptoes to kiss him. A soft kiss, a gentle kiss. Mulder closes his eyes, remembers. So many years ago, a whole lifetime away, they kissed like this; it’s almost an exact replica. Except that this time there is no baby between them. Only unspoken feelings, a sense of new sprung hope, and love. That, Mulder thinks, is the one thing that never went away. But for the next long minutes he doesn’t think. Not about their son, not about their past or their future. He is in the present. Scully is leading him with her lips, with her hands, and her gentle touch. Mulder lets go, follows her; he would follow her any time, everywhere, and she knows.

When he wakes hours later, Scully is fast asleep next to him. Her hair is sprawled on the pillow like a wildfire. He watches her sleep, can’t tear his eyes away. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear to see her face in the dim light of the bathroom light; Scully must have forgotten to turn it off. It’s enough for Mulder to see her perfectly. William, he thinks, has his nose, but Scully’s lips and chin. His eyes are no longer blue, his hair no longer red. We did well, Mulder thinks, hopes Scully agrees. He smiles against his will, thinking of their son. He is out there now doing his own thing, going his own way. Mulder wishes they could be by his side, guide him. It is not meant to be. Not now, anyway. He gets up to use the bathroom. On his way back to the bed he sees something stick out of his pocket: a picture. Mulder picks it up, swallows hard. It’s one of the photographs Scully found earlier. The ones he didn’t dare look at, then. Now he can’t tear his eyes away. There’s William, around eight or nine years old, grinning into the camera. His hands around a baseball bat, his stubborn hair hidden under a cap. The picture before him blurs as tears cloud his vision. One falls down right on the little boy. Mulder wipes it away carefully, afraid that the moment, although frozen in time for forever, might disappear.

“I wanted you to have it.” Scully’s hand is on his back, strokes him gently. She leans against him heavily, sleepy exhaustion apparent in every muscle. “When I took it I thought… well, you know what I thought. I figured no one would miss with his parents,” she clears her throat, “no one would miss it, but we’d have this… at least this.”

“I wish I could have taught him.” Mulder says, his voice breaking, full of tears.

“I wish that too.” Scully whispers, kisses his shoulder. “He looks happy though, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

Mulder has so many questions still, wants to say so many things he has no words for. Scully’s finger follows the contours of their son and Mulder imagines a day, a regular day in spring or summer. William would run into the house, the baseball bat falling to the floor with a clank. Scully would remind him to take off his shoes, to take off his dirty clothes. Laughter would follow the small boy; happiness in every step he takes. Mulder watches the scene that has never happened. Or if it has, he’s not seen it. He never would. But he has this. His hand joins Scully’s on the pictures. Their fingers touch, remain close.

“Our son loves baseball.” He says and Scully nods against his shoulder, laughs and cries against him. It finally feels right.


End file.
